


Broken

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Brain Damage, Hurt/Comfort, Regression, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:46:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8464198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Tragedy strikes when you least expect it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

John has always known that life is merciless.  
  
Tragedy strikes when you least expect it. And it did. It had struck. It had struck in the form of three men who had somehow decided to let their anger out on Sherlock - perhaps they were spurred by alcohol and irritated wives and unequaled plans, the usual dangerous mix.  
  
Wrong place wrong time, so to speak.  
   
John saw the blurry shots that a camera had made. He didn’t see much because of the darkness of the night, only blurry shadows, but he had heard enough. He had heard too much. He had heard their salacious, babbled sayings, and Sherlock’s snappy retorts.  
   
John doesn’t know why Sherlock was there in that alley that night.  
Perhaps he had only gone for a walk, or he had followed a trail, or he had visited some homeless….Or, or, or. It didn’t matter why. He had been there. And of course, Sherlock could defend himself very well. He demonstrated that often enough. But something had gone wrong this time.  
  
John remembers every sound.  
  
He remembers the panting of the men, as the wrangling began. The outcry when a fist found its mark. More wheezing, louder, faster. Mad growls. Insults. And at some point, almost inaudible, almost innocent, a crack.  
  
Then silence. Frightened? Stunned? Mumbled words. Then screams. Accusations. Then quickly, quickly removing steps . And that was it. Some homeless came over by chance and had found him. Sherlock. As he lay lifeless on the asphalt of the road, with his head on the curb in a puddle of blood - almost dried.  
   
The medics came much too late.  
  
The operation came much too late.  
  
The swelling in Sherlock’s brain was already way too big.  
  
They had called John in the middle of the night. He was the emergency contact. He immediately drove to hospital. And there he stood, stunned, dazed, listening to the words of the doctor after hours of operation.  
“Swelling … oxygen depletion … bleeding in the brain … regression … amnesia …"  and  "I’m sorry, Doctor Watson It is very unlikely that your friend will ever recover from it ….”  
  
That was it.  
  
So simply Sherlock Holmes and his wonderful mind were destroyed.  
  
John just sat there and stared into the void. Mycroft came at some point. Eventually the doctor said the same words that he had said to John, to Mycroft. At some point Mycroft collapsed and cried. He cried. And John listened to his sobs and didn’t bring out a single tear. He was empty.  
Numb.  
  
And when Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time after weeks - when he finally woke up from the artificial coma, he didn’t recognize John. And his world broke into thousand pieces.  
  
*  
  
John opens the door and smiles involuntarily when he sees Sherlock sitting huddled on the bed, a drawing pad in his lap and a pen awkwardly between two fingers of his right hand. He has his mouth slightly open and his eyes fixed down in concentration.  
John closes the door softly and slowly steps to the bed. Sherlock initially doesn’t notice him.  
“Hello, Sherlock,” John says with a dry throat, and he puts on a smile, which he hopes does not resemble in a grimace. Sherlock winces slightly and slowly raises his head, squints into the void, as if waking from a trance. John almost feels sorry to have bothered him. Finally Sherlock turns his head, where a large bald spot on the right side is still visible to him, and knits his brow, confused. Tilts his head. He doesn’t recognize him. Naturally. False Hope. Still.  
John swallows.  
“It’s me, John,” he says and smiles a little wider. He watches as Sherlock’s eyes flit about him and then remain attached to his face.  
  
Sherlock’s frown deepens. “John …”, he repeats softly. It sounds like a question.  
  
“Yes, John,” John repeats and sits down slowly on the plastic chair next to the bed. He places the tin with the biscuits he brought with him on the night table and clears his throat. “What have you painted?” He asks kindly.  
  
Sherlock blinks and then shakes his head slowly. “Not painted. Written.”  
  
“Oh?” John says and stretches curiously to see the block.  
Sherlock shows him the first side and says with a certain pride in his voice: “My Name”  
  
“Wow,” John says, pleased. “You’ve made progress.”  
  
That’s true. The letters are not spidery and unreadable as a few weeks ago but straight and clear. Sherlock’s motor skills seemed to develop quite well. At least he had one small ray of hope. But Sherlock’s brain will not recover. No way. That is what the specialist said. With pity in his voice. Pity they all have …  
Sherlock nods happily and looks at John intently. He furrows his brow again, as if he was thinking hard. Then he takes a forefinger to his mouth and begins to bite nervously on the nail.  
  
John shakes his head. “You know you shouldn’t do that, Sherlock. Otherwise, this liquid gets put back on your nails. The one that burns the tongue,” he says sternly. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he takes his finger hastily out of his mouth.  
  
"Good,” John mumbles and looks aside. His gaze falls on a stuffed animal that he does not recognize, and that is sitting very tidily - unlike the others - on the bedside table, leaning against the table lamp. A bee. A large plush bee. “Where did you get that beautiful bee from?” He asks, and Sherlock’s face brightens. “Myc brought it!”  
  
“Ah.” John can not prevent a sharp pain that goes through his chest. He’s instantly ashamed of his jealousy. Sherlock remembers Mycroft. No one can say exactly why, but it is probably a good thing. After all, Mycroft donates some comfort to him then. John knows that Sherlock does not always feel as good as he does today. Nightmares make him cry at night. Perhaps he sees images of the past, which he can’t remember anymore. Headaches often make him dizzy and make him cry. Sometimes he is able to go to the toilet. Sometimes he’s not. Sometimes he can eat, sometimes not. It depends.  
  
John hates it. John hates all of it.  
  
Sometimes, when he is in his bed, and Mary is beside him, asleep, he paints out in gruesome details what he would do to these three men. Murderous rage. They were never caught. Not until now.  
   
“Do you want to hold it?” Sherlock asks suddenly in a timid voice, ripping John from his thoughts.  
  
“Yes. Of course,” he says and looks at how Sherlock very carefully takes the plush bee in his hands as if it were incredibly valuable. He hands it to John and he takes it. The bee is soft. His face is reflected in its clear pearl eyes. He stares at it and suddenly tears rise in his eyes. He can not repress it. They start to run out of his eyes down his cheeks. He quickly gives Sherlock the bee back before a tear can fall on it.  
  
Sherlock takes it back and pushes it to his chest and looks at John uncertainly, with wide open eyes.  
"Did you hurt yourself? Do you need a plaster?” He asks quietly. “I have some with cats on them.” He shows John his right hand back where actually a colorful plaster with cat faces on it. John forces himself to smile.  
  
“I just have something in my eyes,” he says suffocated.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t reply. He continues to look at him with big eyes.  
  
John tries to pull himself together. He doesn’t want to scare Sherlock. He quickly grabs the tin of biscuits and opens it. He hands one to Sherlock. “Here, Mary has baked them for you. Ginger. You like that, right? ”  
  
Sherlock takes the biscuit and takes a bite. He smiles. “Thank you, um, what was your name again? I don’t have such a good memory, you know?” He taps a finger to his head with an apologetic glance and John swallows. “But it’s getting better, says the blonde nurse. I just need a bit of practice. ”  
  
John smiles tearfully and nods. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. My name is John.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock repeats, smiling radiantly. “You have a beautiful name!”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”  
  
They eat the biscuits and Sherlock shows him a few pictures he has painted. Trees and suns with faces and colorful houses. John praises him for every single picture only so he can see the broad smile that brightens Sherlock’s gaunt face. Two hours later he can no longer stand it and leaves.  
He leaves the room and tells Julia, the blond nurse, who is just about to enter, goodbye. She gives him a smile and then enters to Sherlock’s room. John leaves the clinic hastily and before he reaches the exit, tears run down his cheeks again.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock bites on his tongue lightly while he’s writing his name again. Sometimes the pen slips and it is not good. Not straight. It should be straight.  
He doesn’t look up as the blond nurse - what was her name again? - Comes to him and asks him if everything is okay.  
  
“Yes,” he says without looking up of the sheet of paper.  
  
“ Will the man from before come back soon?”  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yes, John. He was nice,” Sherlock replies and smiles absently.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you absolutely sure?” The doctor asks with raised eyebrows.

“Absolutely sure,” John replies quietly. He pushes the glossy catalogs from various care homes, which the doctor has shown him, aside with a determined gesture.  
  
The doctor sighs and stows the catalogs in a drawer of his desk. He looks at John again and frowns.  
“I can understand you, John. Really. I can understand the hope. You think you can bring back a part of his memory by bringing him in a familiar environment.”  
  
John bends his head. “Yes. This is exactly what I have in mind.”  
  
The doctor smiles gently, compassionately. “It will not work.”  
  
“I don’t think so.”  
  
“What do you expect, is a miracle, John.”  
  
“I have already asked Sherlock Holmes for a miracle a long time ago, doctor. And the miracle happened. I will not give up my hope.”

*

John folds his shirts neatly and puts them in his suitcase.  
  
From the corner of his eye he perceives that Mary enters his room.  
He swallows.  
  
When he looks up, he meets her gaze. There is a slight sadness in it. But also a lot understanding.  
He clears his throat. “I am sorry…”  
  
“No,” she says. “Do not apologize, John. It’s all right. Take care of him. If you need anything, you have my phone number.”  
  
He nods. “Thank you, Mary.”  
  
She smiles slightly. And leaves the room without a word more.  
He looks after her for a moment, then he continues.  
  
When he closes the suitcase, it feels as if he would finish a chapter of his life.

*

“Well,” Julia gives him some pill bottles. “You already know what he has to take and when.”  
  
“Yes, thank you,” John says. He stowed the drugs in his pocket.  
  
She smiles at him. It looks a little sad.  
“It feels strange to see him go,” the nurse says quietly.  
  
“I know. After six months, this is not surprising.”  
  
“Mmh. Yes. Be careful that he doesn’t receive too much draft. And stress. Stress is not very good for him.”  
  
“OK.”  
  
“Here are also the blocks that he has painted and described.”  
  
John smiles. “That are many!”  
  
“Well, he has done that half of the day,” she says and laughs. Suddenly she is serious. She pulls out a single sheet of paper and look at it for a moment. Then she says: “That you should take note. He has described the sheet here just this morning. ”  
She shows it to him and he considers it. The next moment he freezes and his mouth falls open.  
  
Above Sherlock’s name and some individual letters is written in large red letters: **JONN**  
An echo of his name.  
False written, yes, but it nevertheless overgrows suddenly the feel of hope in his interiors.  
  
“Thanks,” he breathes and puts the sheet neatly folded in his pocket.  
  
Julia smiles. “I hope that the miracle you long for will happen,” she says softly and shakes his hand.  
  
“Thank you. Thanks for everything, Julia. I will keep you up to date,” John replies seriously.   
And then he goes to Sherlock’s room.  
  
There his friend waits for him, dressed and with a small suitcase besides him on the bed.   
Sherlock looks up to him. He seems to be confused.   
“Julia said we leave? Where do we go? "He asks and kneaded his hands nervously.   
  
"Home”, John says quietly and goes on his knees in front of him. “We’re going home, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock frowns. "I do not want to leave."   
  
John swallows. The doctor has warned him that something like this might happen. He looks for help to Julia, who stands in the doorway.   
"That is not your home to Sherlock,” she says gently. “This is the hospital. For people who are sick and need care, do you remember? You are not so sick anymore. You must not be here. "   
  
Sherlock looks doubtfully at her. Then back to John. "Can I take bee with me?"   
  
He points to the plush bee in his lap.   
  
"Of course,” John says with a sad smile. “Of course you can take it with you."   
  
"Ok,” Sherlock says quietly. He lets John help him to get to his feet. John takes his suitcase and leads him out of the room, which was his home for nearly one year.

And another chapter is finished. 

*

“So,  here we are.”  
John watches as Sherlock blinks into the dim light in the apartment.   
He swallows.   
  
The taxi drive was already quite disturbing for Sherlock. The driver was obviously more than surprised about the tall, slender man in a suit, who  buried his face in a plush bee and had quietly whimpered to himself.  
  
John was glad when they finally held at Baker Street.   
  
Now his heart pounds rapidly. Excitement constricts his throat.  
  
The hope that Sherlock would smile the next moment and would say something like “Oh, we are home” is strong but deceptive.  
Instead of a smile there is just confusion in Sherlock’s face. And obvious exhaustion.  Too much new. Too much at once.  
  
John sighs.  
"Come, I will show you your room, right?"   
  
He takes the cases and leads  Sherlock into his old bedroom.

*

The days  pass slowly and monotonously. And with each of these days John’s hope  disappears further.  
He says to himself that he must not expect too much.  
Tells himself that he must be patient.  
But he can do nothing against the resignation, which becomes stronger and stronger.   
  
Mycroft comes by periodically to take care of Sherlock so John gets a little  air or can do a purchase.   
It gives John every time a stab in the heart when he sees how Sherlock responds to Mycroft.  He smiles. He embraces Mycroft.  
And John cannot do anything against the sting of jealousy, that digs into him.   
  
Mycroft seems to know.  
Naturally.  
He always knows everything.  
But he says nothing. Loses no word on this.  
  
Every time he goes, a check with a considerable sum lies on the table in the kitchen. Once when John drags shopping bags into the apartment, Mycroft comes up to  him and clears his throat.  
"John.”  
  
“Is something wrong with Sherlock?” John asks alarmed and looks up from a pack of tea.  
  
“No.  I was just wondering where Sherlock’s violin would be.”  
  
“Oh.” John runs his hand over his slightly sweaty forehead. “I  … I have packed it away. I could not bear it, I … ”  
  
“I understand,” Mycroft says quietly. “But I thought maybe it  could help. The violin has always allowed Sherlock to relax and gather.  ”  
  
John shakes his head with a sigh. “He will not be able to play,” he  says with a vague gesture. “He wouldn’t remember how to.”  
  
“It would be worth a try, John. I am sure about that.”  
  
“Why not. OK. Yes.”

*

When John  brings the violin into Sherlock’s room, it is early evening.  
Sherlock sits in his bed and scribbles busily on a block. Bites slightly on  his tongue, as usual.  
  
“Hey,” John says and sits down next to him, the case with the  violin he puts on his legs. “Look what I have brought you.”  
He opens the case and shows Sherlock, who looks up from the sheet, the  
instrument.  
  
Sherlock looks down on the violin and frowns.  
“That … is a Vi … Vio … violin, right?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, that is a violin. Your violin. It is yours,” John says  softly.   
  
 Sherlock looks at him in surprise. “It’s mine?”  
  
“Yes. If you want to, you can try to play on it.”  
  
John puts the suitcase on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock looks down at the instrument for a moment and frowns, then his attention returned to the sheet  
on which he has once again exercised its name.  
  
John’s heart aches.  
  
He leaves the room quickly. To make tea, he tells himself. But  actually, it is an escape

*

John  begins to get used to living with Sherlock how it is.  
He gets used to it that Sherlock no longer experiments with chemical  
substances - but with building blocks.  
  
Or finger paint. One afternoon they paint all the windows in the apartment. With  
suns and colorful flowers and Sherlock smiles all the time. John lives for  that smile. He draws its strength from it. So he does everything he can to  see that bright smile on Sherlock’s face as often as possible.

He takes Sherlock in his arm on the couch and watches movies with him.  
Sherlock develops a great enthusiasm for Disney movies. When Mufasa dies in  
The Lion King, they cry both.   
    
Every Saturday he bakes cookies with Sherlock and invites Mrs. Hudson to  
attend. Mrs. Hudson is the only of their acquaintances who can cope quite  well with the situation. Sherlock likes her very much.   
    
He does not go out with Sherlock. Instead, he is always thinking up things  with which he can occupy Sherlock inside. He starts to give him lessons in  writing. And in mathematics. Sherlock is an avid and docile pupil. But his  difficulties with motor skills and concentration not let him always enjoy the  success he seeks so diligently.  
    
Sometimes Sherlock wakes up at night and starts screaming. John, who sleeps in  Sherlock’s bed, takes him in his arms and calms him with mumbled words and  thoughtful touches. Sherlock is never able to tell about the dreams, but  
John  suspects their content. Strange memories of murders, crime scenes and strangers. Images which Sherlock can’t classify. And so they just scare  him.   
    
After all, Sherlock has usually his bladder under control. Only sometimes John finds the bed wet in the morning. And a trembling Sherlock with the tears in  his eyes. And again John calms him as good as he can.  
    
More and more, John feels like a father. A father with a child who is not a  child. And he gets used to it. Because he has to.   
So the days go by.   
Weeks.   
Months.   
And suddenly, half of a year has passed. In their new life which wasn’t really  new.

*

Eventually,  on a rainy autumn afternoon, John prepares a bath for Sherlock. He sits down  on the toilet lid and watches dully how the water flows from the tap into the  bathtub.  
And then he hears it.   
A soft, bright tone.   
  
He looks up, surprised and confused. And then he hears it again. This time a little louder and longer. It comes from  Sherlock’s room. ‘John stands up, forgets the running water, and rushes to Sherlock.  
  
When he stands in the doorway, he sees Sherlock standing before the window in  his gown, the violin awkwardly balanced on the shoulder and the arc gently pulling on the strings.   
  
And for a moment it looks as if it were the “old” Sherlock.  
John is stunned and just stares.   
  
Eventually, Sherlock turns around and sees him. He looks at John with a mixture of shock and amusement. “Your mouth is open,” he says and  laughs.   
   
John closes it. 

Sherlock looks at the violin and frowns. He puts it differently on his shoulder. More stable. He looks back at John. “I think I am not doing it  properly. Mycroft makes music with it. Why cannot I make music like Mycroft?”  
The next  moment, there are tears shining in Sherlock’s eye and John goes to him quickly.   
  
He puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I’m sure Mycroft can help you with  it, alright? We can call him and he can teach you?”  
  
Sherlock seems to think about it very hard. Then he smiles and nods. “Ok."   
  
He puts his violin gently back into its case.   
John watches him wistfully and suddenly he remembers the bathwater.   
"For God’s sake, the water! It surely has already overflowed… "   
 

Gone is the magic moment. 

*  
    
When  Sherlock finally sits in the tub  John washes his hair with the kids pirate shampoo that Mycroft has brought  them.   
He moves his fingertips gently through the silky curls and hums a melody from one of the Disney movies.   
When John washes out the shampoo Sherlock tilts his head back as John has  shown him so that nothing goes into his eyes.   
When John has finished, Sherlock looks at him with an attentive look. He seems to think hard.   
Suddenly he says slowly: "Thank you. Uhm. John. Thank you, John."  
  
John is  speechless again. He stares at Sherlock, with his wet hands useless in the  air.  
  
Sherlock frowns. He tilts his head. "Oh… was it wrong?” He asks and  lowers his head.   
  
“No,” John breathes. “No. The … That is my name.  Yes.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him again and smiles from ear to ear, and John smiles  back.  
  
“John …” Sherlock murmurs softly. “John, John.  John."   
  
John swallows. Tears let his vision blur. He quickly wipes them away.   
Involuntarily he puts a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock leans into the  touch and their eyes meet. Stay attached to one another. Warmth and  tranquility.   
    
Hope.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic already was part of my short story collection - but since it is so long I decided to post it alone.  
> Visit me on [Tumblr](http://currently-in-my-mind-palace.tumblr.com/) for more :)


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